


Resurrection

by ManicRavingsofaLunatic



Series: The In Between [9]
Category: Young Justice, Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst, Atrophy, Gen, Long way home, Whatever happened to the Second Robin?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 19:11:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2079849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ManicRavingsofaLunatic/pseuds/ManicRavingsofaLunatic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been nearly two years since Jason Todd died in a mission gone horrifically wrong. But that was just the beginning. He wakes with no memory of his life, or death, in the care of the mysterious Talia - can he figure out the truth? And when he gets home, will he be able to face his replacement? Two-shot/Set near the end of the time skip/BatFam</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Atrophy

**Author's Note:**

> This is how I imagine Jason fitting into the series; and as the writers decided not to tell us what the frick happened to the second Robin, I've decided to take liberties and write this story about his rebirth and journey back to Gotham.

**Atrophy** _noun_ : _1,_ a wasting away of the body or of an organ or part, as from defective nutrition or nerve damage. _2,_ degeneration, decline or decrease, as from disuse

* * *

I remember drowning. Which is weird, because I didn't drown.

It was the smoke that killed me. I have no idea why I was there, or who I was with, or what the _hell_ I was doing in some burning warehouse by a lake that day, but I do distinctly remember my last few moments. When I close my eyes, I can still feel the heat of the flames blistering my skin. I can feel the thick smoke in my lungs, tightening my chest to the point where I decide that it's a really good idea to just lie down and sleep because _damnnit_ I don't have the energy to move anymore.

There's a voice in my ear; God only knows if it was my conscience, or a friend or… a _brother?_ All I know is that it kept begging me to hold on, that help was coming…

I guess that help came too late.

I don't know. All I know is that when I woke up, I still couldn't breathe. The heat was gone, replaced by a cold so chilling that I felt as if I had been flash frozen. I couldn't move, couldn't think… the lack of ability to _breathe_ was still an issue… but I didn't have the energy to panic. Lethargically, I peeled open my eyes to see nothing but green water, and belatedly realised that I was drowning. I can't say that I was thinking overly straight – in fact, I went a little bit crazy for a good while after my 'rebirth', but I knew enough to realise that _drowning_ was _bad_.

Instincts alone made me force my uncooperative limbs into action and swim desperately for the surface. When I broke free and took my first breath in well… a _really_ long time, I may or may not have been screaming.

It's a blur after that. I was wrapped in dry cloth by some faceless attendants. Emerald light rippled across the roof of a cave, only to be replaced by the crimson canopy of a ridiculously comfy four-poster bed. There was a beautiful woman with dark skin and golden eyes.

And then there was nothing.

* * *

When I wake up, I don't open my eyes. I don't fidget, adjust my breathing pattern, or anything. Why? I have no idea – it just feels like the right thing to do, like some instinct that has been drilled into me… _training_ , _maybe_? I decide not to think about it, and focus on listening.

I can sense an open window to my right, the distinct lack of any city sounds telling me that I'm not home (wherever the hell that was once upon a memory wipe). It's warm, and whatever I'm lying on feels comfortable, so that rules out a hospital, despite the beeping of a heart monitor and the wires I can feel trailing across my body. There's a low murmur of voices muffled by thick walls, telling me that wherever I am, I'm not alone. Which means that I have to figure out whether my hosts are good guys or bad guys.

It would help if I could remember. _Anything._ But I can't. My mind is a stubborn blank, as if someone has come along and stolen all of my memories away. I don't have a clue how I got to wherever I am, or what I was doing before I passed out or whatever. I don't even know my own name.

Oddly, this doesn't concern me half as much as it should.

The next startling discovery comes when I decide to get up and investigate – and find that I can't move. _At all._ My eyes open to reveal the deep red of the canopy above me, but I can't turn my head to see anything else. My body feels leaden; heavy and non-responsive – almost as if it no longer belongs to me, or _hasn't_ belonged to me for a really long time. But, on the plus side, I _can_ feel it, which means that I'm not paralysed.

Logically, I know that I should be panicking right now. I have no idea where I am, _who_ I am, and I can't move. But for all of these very valid reasons to be hyperventilating, I find myself calm – fearless even. As if I had been through far worse than this and survived, whether I could remember it or not. I feel warm, comfortable… _safe_.

And very, very tired.

* * *

So, apparently my name is Jason – sorry for the belated intro.

I would love to say that I remembered that on my own, but no; I'm still having issues remembering anything. The mysterious woman with the dark skin and golden eyes filled me in, and the moment that she said 'Jason', it just felt right, and I knew that she wasn't lying. About that, at least. Nothing else she says is sitting quite so well.

She claims that I'm sixteen – which feels odd, like I skipped a birthday or something. I still haven't been able to get up (or move in the slightest), so I haven't been able to check out my reflection, but I don't feel _that_ old. Her answer to that is that I've been 'asleep' for a long time, which again, doesn't feel right. When I sleep (which is a lot – being conscious is _exhausting_ ) I see flashes of flames and smoke and water, and a really scary theory is beginning to form in the back of my mind. I think… I think might have…

Nah, it's impossible.

I may have some serious gaps in my memory and feel about as educated as a kindergartner, but even _I_ know that dead people don't just wake up again. So the fact that I'm lying here right now, having the odd conversation with a distractingly beautiful woman shoots my stupid theory down in flames.

Ouch. Bad pun.

Her name is Talia, by the way – the exotic woman who currently holds all the answers. She comes to visit me every day (as far as I can tell) and talks to me for around ten minutes, depending on how quickly I manage to steer the conversation towards my potential family/home or how I ended up here. She'll talk about my brilliant recovery, or how I drool in my sleep – but the moment I try to find out about my past, she'll claim that she has to leave.

I want to be suspicious. I really do. I can read her expression and body language (a very handy skill that I had no idea that I had) and I _know_ that she's hiding something from me, but for some weird reason I trust her.

It must be Stockholm syndrome.

* * *

By my guess, it's been about two weeks since I first woke up in this room. I spend most of my time asleep, trapped in nightmares that have had me waking up screaming on more than one occasion, but if I'm right about Talia's daily visits, then fourteen meetings means fourteen days. Our talks are getting shorter, and I think that she's beginning to realise that she's going to have to tell me the truth sooner rather than later.

I'm starting to remember things.

There's someone important that I vaguely recall. A shadowy figure – all dark and threatening and prone to glaring instead of talking. Okay, so this guy doesn't exactly sound friendly, but for some reason, I associate him with feeling safe and protected. I think he might be… I think he might be my _Dad._

I tried to ask Talia. She practically ran from the room.

* * *

My sleep pattern is finally starting to regulate so that I actually see most of the day now. But that just means that I spend more time awake and thinking… and confusing myself with the tiny fragments of memories that come back to me. Nothing makes any sense.

There's another person that I remember – someone similar to the shadowy figure I have tentatively dubbed 'Dad', but lighter, I guess. I remember this guy smiling at me, teaching me something… I kind of feel in _awe_ of him, like this is the guy that I wanted to grow up to be. Which is just weird, because that is so not like me. Okay, so I'm not entirely sure _what_ I'm like, but I'm pretty sure that I don't do _hero worship_.

At least, I don't think I do.

Talia hasn't been by since I asked her about 'Dad', so I can't ask her about my growing theory that I may have a 'brother' as well. Instead I try to distract myself with my only other visitor.

As far as I can tell, she's a serving girl. She doesn't talk much (in fact, she didn't say a word for the first two weeks) and she keeps her head bowed and avoids all eye contact. Her job is to check the many tubes attached to my invalid form (you don't even want to know where some of them are inserted) and to help me with simple exercises to get my body to function properly again.

I figure it's about time that I learn the name of the girl who has spent an uncomfortable amount of time in my personal space.

* * *

I've been in a fricking _coma?_ For _two years!?_

This cannot be happening. This cannot be happening. _Two years?_ I lost _two years_ of my life?! This cannot be happening.

* * *

Her name is Sora, by the way – the serving girl. It took me four days of wheedling, and a level of charm that I did not know that I possessed (considering that I'm flat on my back like a helpless turtle while the girl waits on me) but I finally got her name. And the truth.

I have been in a coma, for two years. And I may have freaked out _ever-so-slightly_ when I found out.

Apparently, Talia knew my family before some mysterious accident happened. I was the only survivor. She took me in and looked after me until I woke up about a month ago. The reason why she avoids talking about my past is because it's too painful for her to remember my family.

I may not really remember 'Dad' and 'Brother', but it still hurts to know that they're dead. I was just beginning to learn about them, beyond the emotions that tied me to their vague memories, and it feels like a part of me has been torn away now that they're gone. But I know that I'll survive – it's what I do, after all. I'm pretty damn sure that I was on my own before they took me in. I can handle being on my own now.

But there's something that's nagging at me. When Sora told me the story, there was something off. She sounded sincere and apologetic enough to be bearing the bad news. But she never met my eyes. She constantly looked down and to the left.

Somehow I know that this means that she was lying.

* * *

Talia comes by for the first time in nearly two weeks, and confirms the story. She tells me of a plane crash that occurred when my family and I were travelling over to visit her – calling it a tragic accident that took two very special people far too soon. I picture the flames and the smoke that haunts my nightmares, but it doesn't fit with the incident she describes. I ask her if we crashed near water. She looks confused.

She tears up rather convincingly when she describes my headstrong and brave father, but when I ask what his name was, she hesitates. There's a flicker of something in her unnaturally golden eyes – almost fear, but not quite. Apprehension? It is almost as if she's worried that his name will somehow open the floodgates to my memories. Is it concern for my wellbeing – to prevent me from recalling some trauma? Or hers – to stop me from seeing through her lies?

She's watching me just as closely as I'm studying her, and I can see the calculation in her gaze.

"Your father…" she pauses. Sighs resignedly. "His name was Bruce."

I blink. Once. Twice.

And suddenly I can see his face. Weathered skin, brow permanently furrowed from stress and the effort to maintain that perpetual scowl that could somehow convey pride as well as disappointment. Black hair meticulously kempt to portray a socially accepted image, even as the first grey hairs betray his arrival at middle-age. Eyes a dark shade of blue, dulled slightly by exhaustion but still passionate and determined. I can almost hear his voice.

Talia's still watching me, trying to figure out how much I remembered from that one name.

Part of me knows I shouldn't, but I still trust her. She's been lying to me ever since I woke up; only now beginning to tell me anything because I was halfway there on my own, but I can read beyond the words. I can tell that her concern for me is genuine – whether there is an ulterior motive behind it or not. Somehow I know that there haven't been a great many people who have actually cared about me in my short life. It feels nice.

I tell myself that she is lying to protect me. I try to ignore the fact that I'm lying to myself.

* * *

That night I dream. For the first time in a long time though, there are no flames.

I'm beyond starving; the hunger so bad that I can actually feel my stomach eating itself as I run through the streets of a city. It's raining, and I'm cold and wet and miserable. It feels familiar, but I don't really remember this. Somehow I know that I'm twelve years old, alone, and desperately searching for my next meal ticket.

I don't recognise the buildings I pass, or the street names I catch as I try to stay out of sight, but I seem to know exactly where it is that I'm going. I spot a graffiti-ed over sign that once said Park Row and quickly dart down it. Adrenaline is pumping through me like crazy, making me hyper-aware of every little sound and movement. I _know_ this place is dangerous, but I'm too hungry to care.

That's when I see it. Sleek, black, beautiful. A wonder of modern engineering and design. Practical and built for speed, but also aesthetic – instantly recognisable as the chariot of damnation that it was. It wasn't just a car.

It was the _batmobile_.

Custom made tyres with a distinct tread that labelled them as the Bat's – I knew a guy who'd pay a pretty penny for a trophy like that. I'd be eating like a prince for months!

If I didn't get caught, that is.

I drop to my knees beside the front wheel, ignoring the rain and the grime that instantly soaks through my worn jeans, and focusing on the task at hand. Within an hour, I've got three tyres off and the infamous batmobile up on bricks. It was as I working off the last one, however, that a shadow fell across me.

I'm on my feet and backing up before I've completely registered that I'm not alone. I realise that I've put my hands up, inadvertently displaying the tyre iron that pretty much makes my guilt irrefutable. I gulp down my fear and nervousness and try for false bravado as I look the shadow in the eye.

The Batman stares back. And I recognise that scowl.

* * *

My memory comes back to me pretty quickly after that. I remember my criminal Dad and my drug addict Mom from before that night in Crime Alley. I can see Wayne Manor in my mind's eye, the grandfather clock guarding the entrance to _the_ cave. I can practically smell Alfred's cookies, hear Dick's ridiculous cackle, feel Bruce's reassuring hand on my shoulder…

They weren't dead, like Talia told me. I knew that much. There hadn't been a plane crash. And I suspect that there probably wasn't a coma either.

I really did _die_.

The details are still hazy, but I remember the flaming warehouse beside the lake, and I know that I wasn't alone. There was a green-skinned girl who was really not faring well in the heat, and another girl with long blonde hair. The three of us were trapped, waiting for a rescue that we all knew was going to be too late. I got free of the bonds and released the others, but the building was collapsing. As we were trying to get out, I got separated. Left behind.

It takes me a while to figure out how the hell I went from crispy critter to paralysed prisoner, but eventually word association pays off.

Bruce – Batman. Batman – Robin. Robin – Dick. Dick – Hero. Hero – Villain. Villain – Ra's. Ra's – Talia. Talia – Al Ghul.

Al Ghul – Lazarus Pit.

Talia, probably under her father's orders, must have resurrected me in the waters that had been keeping the Demon's Head alive for centuries. I have no idea why, but I'm pretty damn sure that it wasn't out of the goodness of their hearts. Sure, I know that Talia cares for me somewhat; that wasn't a lie at least, but I doubt that she bought me back just because she likes me. I know that they're using me for… _something…_ but what? Obviously against Bruce but…

 _Bruce_ … who has no idea that I'm _alive._ He must be devastated. Heart broken. Taking out his grief on the criminals of Gotham. Okay, so I know that it's been two years and we didn't really know each other for all that long, but I was still a child that he took responsibility for. The guy still holds onto the loss of his parents, he's not exactly the poster child for healthy grieving techniques.

I have to tell him that I'm alright. I _have_ to get _home_.

Trouble is, I'm still not exactly _mobile._ Yesterday moving my pinkie unaided was a monumental achievement. It's not as if I can just get up and walk out of here. And where _is_ here? How do I travel and get to Gotham when I'm _legally_ dead?

And what if Talia tries to stop me?

* * *

Essentially being paralysed is _beyond_ frustrating.

It didn't seem to matter so much before – I didn't have anywhere to go – but now it's driving me _insane_.

Sora has noticed that something is different about me; I'm actually trying when she puts me through my paces with the basic exercises, and the small movements that would have been a cause for celebration before are now irritatingly below par. She doesn't say a word though. I suspect that the dark bruise around her eye is punishment for her telling me anything (even if it was the lie that we were both force fed). I don't try to pry any more information out of her.

Talia is watching me closer than ever. I try to act as lethargic and care-free as possible whenever she comes by for one of her visits, but I'm not gonna flatter myself with the belief that I'm actually fooling her.

* * *

It's another two weeks before I'm given the green light to try walking. Probably because I got up the night before and attempted a few steps, before face planting and pulling out a lot of those tubes and wires.

I'm sitting on the edge of the bed (unaided, I might add) where I have spent the last God knows how long, ready and waiting to take my first steps. Some of the wires have been removed to make it a little easier, but the ones that remain feel more like a leash than a lifeline. After failing as epically as I did last night, there's no way to avoid the supervision that I get now. There's Sora and a physician grasping each of my arms, while Talia watches from a chair in the corner.

I don't appreciate the audience.

There are no words of encouragement as my feet hit the stone floor, but I don't really expect any. In my head I imagine Dick grinning at me while Bruce scowls from the corner, and I know that if they were here, they would be proud of me. It's not every day that a dead man walks again.

My muscles cry out even at the slight weight of my emaciated form, but I grit my teeth and force myself to put one foot in front of the other. I'm panting from the exertion once we cross the room and turn back, but I can't help grinning. It feels good, _so_ good, just being vertical. I want to run, pick up the pace; but my knee gives out and I crumple to the floor.

The doctor says that I need to rest. I tell him where to shove it.

An hour later and I've shrugged off my human crutches, replacing them with wooden ones as I pace from one side of the room to the other. I'm beyond exhausted, but I refuse to stop. I was trained by the Batman after all. We don't understand the term 'take a break'. It's time to quit when you're face down on the floor and wheezing because you've worked yourself into oblivion.

Speaking of – I'm gonna pass out now.

* * *

I'm staring at my reflection. I didn't really believe Talia when she said that I was sixteen, but now that I'm standing in front of a mirror, I kinda do.

I'm taller than I remember being – I might be nearly six foot – probably taller than Dick… I can't wait to rub it in the little midget's face! And my face looks older too, if a little gaunt. There's stubble lining my chin and I realise, rather jarringly, that I'm gonna have to learn to shave once I escape (Sora does it for me at the moment) She's been keeping my hair short too, in an attempt to make me presentable, though I've still got terrible bed head. I lift my shirt to see just how horrifically thin I am; every bone visible through my skin, and my once-impressive abs a thing of the past – but I can fix that.

What I can't fix though, is my eyes. They have always been blue, not as crazy blue as Dick's, or as dark as Bruce's, but still blue. Now though, when the light catches them, I can see a ring of green around my irises. I realise that I have seen the same markings around Talia's golden orbs.

It's just a side effect, but I can't help but feel branded by the power of the Lazarus Pit.

* * *

 

I can officially tick 'walking' off of my escape to-do list.

Actually, I've achieved quite a bit this past week. I cannot tell you just how fantastic it feels to wake up in the morning and simply _stretch_. To actually eat a meal that hasn't been drip fed through my arm. Hell, being able to get up and use the bathroom when I need to is a mighty accomplishment right now.

Today, Talia is supposed to be taking me for a walk around the grounds of this place. I'm finally going to leave this room and figure out where the hell I am – and then I can figure out a way home!

* * *

So… slight issue with the whole 'escape' thing…

I am in the middle of freaking _nowhere!_

Okay, so maybe I'm exaggerating slightly. I'm pretty sure that I'm somewhere in the Middle East, judging by the architecture and the ethnicity of the staff, but that doesn't exactly narrow things down any. The walk that Talia took me on this morning followed the whole way around the property edge, proving that beyond this place's borders is a whole load of nothing.

Talia did this on purpose, I know. She seemed to take great glee in telling me that the nearest town was over twelve miles away.

She's trying to kill my spirit; keep me as her placid little prisoner.

She has completely underestimated me.


	2. Nadir

**Nadir** _noun:_ the lowest or deepest point; depths _i.e. 'the nadir of despair'_

* * *

 

It's another two months before I'm ready.

I've spent every day rebuilding my strength – I'm not quite at the level that I was before my dip in the pit, but I'm as close as my patience will let me get. I'm still too thin, but I look a little less like a walking skeleton now. If need be, when I get home, I'll wait a little while before I put on the Robin uniform again. Well, I'll try to anyway. Maybe.

As it turns out, my life as a thief (before I became a hero) has proven very useful. I've managed to pilfer some pretty good supplies, which I've got stashed in a stolen back pack and hidden rather ingeniously under my bed, ready to go. I even know which direction I'm heading in once I'm out of the compound since I surreptitiously asked about the 'local' town that's twelve miles out. My master-escape-plot-of-awesomeness fizzles out a little after that, but it's kind of hard to plan when you can't exactly turn on a laptop or use a travel agent. I figure that Gotham's west, so I'll go that way.

(My inner Batman voice is cringing as I think this)

I know that Talia's on to me, but that's not gonna stop me. Maybe it's foolhardy, but I don't really care.

I want out.

* * *

Tonight's the night.

I lie flat on my back and stare up at the crimson canopy above me for the very last time. Part of me (an extremely _small_ part of me) is going to miss this cushy prison. If I overlook the fact that I was resurrected against my will and lied to for two months and kept from returning home, I could admit that I've kind of been living a life of luxury this whole time. Fine food, quality clothes, being waited on hand and foot…

With a deep breath I forget all of that, and focus on getting out of here. Just in time too.

A loud explosion shakes the building down to its foundations, and I smile proudly. It is frighteningly easy to set up an improvised bomb with whatever you can find in the kitchen.

The shrill whine of an alarm wakes up anybody who may have slept through the boom, and soon I can hear the garbled shouts of the staff as they respond to the perceived attack on the compound. This is my cue to throw myself off of the bed and ram my feet into a pair of boots before grabbing up my getaway-bag. The explosion in the kitchen should be drawing everyone away from my secluded wing of the building, so I'm not overly worried about being discovered as I stride out into the hall.

As I head down the stairs towards the east entrance, I may have to admit that my diversion was a little overboard. Something's caught fire and I can taste the acrid smoke in the air, taking my mind places I would rather not be at the moment. Although my part of the building isn't currently on fire, I can feel the heat of the flames, and I'm not entirely sure if it's real, or just some PTSD picking an inopportune time to haunt me.

I stumble into the wall, and end up groping it for support as my body re-enacts the last day of my first life. I can't breathe, can't think… all I know is that I'm dying all over again and this time it's my own damn fault for going OTT on the flammable liquids.

"Who are you?"

The voice cuts through the memories that I'm drowning in, and I blink. I take a deep breath of only mildly-smoky air, and realise that I really was just imagining it. The building _is_ on fire, but the flames are nowhere near where I'm currently slumped in a corridor. I look up to find a kid standing six paces away from me, scowling at me like I was the dirt brought in on his shoes.

"You are not one of Mother's servants," he declares disdainfully. I briefly wonder who this kid's 'mother' is, before deciding that I don't particularly care, and climb to my feet. I quickly find the tip of a sword pressed against my throat, the kid having closed the distance between us in the blink of an eye. "Are you a trespasser? A thief? What do you hope to gain by attacking this house?"

The kid can't be more than eight years old, with black hair and dark eyes, but he seems to know what he's doing with a sword, so I figure that it's best not to start a fight. I try to explain that I'm a 'guest' of Talia's, and that I came downstairs to investigate the noise. The kid notices the fact that I'm dressed all in black and carrying a backpack, and just raises an eyebrow.

Yeah, I wouldn't believe me either.

So I go for Plan B, and tell the kid the truth. Or at least, the cliff notes version. Disturbingly, he seems to find it easier to believe that Talia's been holding me prisoner for the past two months than my original story. And then he says something that's just plain creepy.

"So you are the one that I must surpass to earn my place."

I don't stop to analyse that bundle of weirdness. The sword lowers from its vigil over my carotid artery, so I capitalise on the distraction. I use the thick sleeve of my jacket to bat the blade away and then take the kid out with a clean strike to the throat. I feel bad for all of thirty seconds, before I decide to steal the sword and run for it.

I just about swallow the elated whoop that wants to escape me as I barrel through the unguarded doors and out into the free air. Instead, I fall back onto my training, taking in my surroundings and finding the path out of the compound that I scouted earlier. Behind me, at least half of the main building is on fire, the hungry flames devouring the once ornate architecture as smoke billows into the sky.

There's no opposition as I sprint for the wall; all the guards ever-so-slightly preoccupied with the little bonfire I set, so I let myself show off with a fancy flip as I make my bid for freedom. I land perfectly on the other side and can't help a smug smile as I picture the look on Talia's face when she realises that I'm gone.

Now I just gotta hope that I've got enough of a head start on her.

Slightly subdued by that sobering thought, I begin the twelve mile trek to the nearest village.

* * *

Its two days later, and I have to say, my master-escape-plot-of-awesomeness is going surprisingly well.

I didn't stay in the town long, quickly finding a ride west with an elderly farmer who didn't speak a word of English. I just pointed in the direction that I wanted to go and he nodded, thumbing at the half-rusted pick-up truck behind him. I spent a couple of hours lying on my back on the flatbed, trying not to cry out too loudly every time we hit a pothole that sent me flying.

By morning, we reached another town, and the farmer pawned me off of another old man, gesturing that he was now heading south, but the new guy would be heading west still. I spent the whole day being slowly cooked alive with a gaggle of noisy chickens for company, but it wasn't half as bad as the hours I spent in the passenger seat of a delivery truck. My third driver was a middle-aged balding man with an obsession with Dean Martin. He seemed to be under the impression that he could actually sing.

I'm pretty that sure my ears were bleeding by the time he ditched me in the next town over.

I keep moving constantly, not overly bothered about where I'm going, so long as I keep heading west; every mile bringing me a little closer to home. I'm feeling more confident the further I get from Talia's compound, and every day that passes with no sign of being followed makes me think that I may just be able to pull this off.

I'm gonna make it home.

* * *

I'm in a train station when I first spot them.

The place is huge and shaped like an egg, split over two stories with a large glass dome roof above. The ground floor houses the ticket booths and the turnstiles that lead to the platforms, with a scattering of market stalls and benches and potted plants like an indoor garden. A staircase leads up to the next floor which runs in a ring around the edge and overlooks the centre of the station, made up of random stores and clothing boutiques. The drone of hundreds of conversations happening at once gets drowned out by the occasional tinny announcement over the loudspeaker.

Without papers, buying tickets and boarding a train legitimately is pretty much impossible, but the stations are a great place to restock supplies and give me a chance to check the timetables. I already know which track the westbound service will be on and have scouted a great place to 'board' once it leaves the platform, so I turn my attention to a fresh food stall that keeps making my stomach growl rebelliously.

My years of practice on the street make stealing a cake walk. While the vendor is sufficiently distracted by a fussy tourist demanding some specific something-or-other, I simply walk past and subtly grab whatever's closest. I manage to snag some fruit and a loaf of bread without a single person seeing a thing.

But as I sit on a bench near the ticket booths, smugly munching on my stolen goods, I spot something that makes my appetite vanish.

For highly trained ninja assassins, Talia' goons are not very good at blending in. I pick two of them out of the crowd with little difficulty, standing watch near the turnstiles. They've swapped their uniforms for civilian garb, but they can't hide the rigidity of their posture, nor make their obvious studying of the crowd any less noticeable. Once I see them, the rest of their group becomes apparent; spread out around the station and blocking all the exits.

This is not good.

I stash my unfinished lunch in my backpack and then head towards the stairs. I resist the urge to run, knowing that that will only draw their attention faster than I can say 'Batman'. Keeping my head down, I latch onto a cluster of tourists, following them closely enough to make it look as if I am a part of their group as they head up the steps and make a beeline for one of those chain coffee shops.

I walk right past the ninja at the top of the stairs.

I breathe out a sigh of relief.

And then he grabs my backpack.

My response is instinctual, and probably not my smartest move. I lash out with a side kick that catches the ninja in the stomach, doubling him over long enough for me to turn and smash my knee into his nose. Instantly, the other ninjas are moving, boxing me in. The civilians that witnessed my brutal beat down seem to be stuck somewhere between fear and concern, but I don't pay them any attention as I pick an exit and run.

Two of the ninjas block the narrow path, but I don't slow down. Using a bench as a boost, I launch myself straight at them, and then use their shoulders to handspring straight over their heads. I almost let out a cackle of laughter like Dick's but then I realise that the ninja's are faster than I thought. The one that I just used as a springboard grabs my backpack and yanks me back towards him. I twist out of the grip and strike out with a high kick that catches one of them in the temple and knocks him into the other.

And then I turn, run a little further along, and throw myself over the balcony.

A one story drop isn't going to kill me, but I still manage to land wrong. I hit the ground and roll straight back onto my feet, but I can feel my ankle twinging in pain. I keep moving, heading towards the now unguarded exit as I sense the ninja's closing the distance behind me.

But then I hear a shrill whistle, and glance back over my shoulder long enough to see that my train is leaving. My window of opportunity to jump on board before it picks up too much speed is closing fast. There is no way that I'm missing this train.

I make a hard right and pick a different exit, surprising my ninja entourage with the sudden direction change. I can practically feel their breath on the back of my neck as I run full pelt out of the station and turn towards the tracks. I know exactly where I'm going from my little scouting trip earlier and don't even think as I head towards where I know there is a gap in the fence. I drop into a skid to fit through the hole in the wire mesh, ignoring the sharp edges that rake at my face and arms. While the ninja's are forced to scale the chain link I put some distance between us, heading towards the mountain of gravel right beside the track.

The train rumbles out of the station, already going a little faster than I had anticipated, but I'm not worried. Me and Dick used to ride trains like this all the time – it was his idea of 'training' – I know exactly what I'm doing.

Half the train has already passed by the time I reach the gravel mountain and run up it so swiftly that the tiny stones barely shift beneath my boots. With a yell I throw myself at the train; part of my brain running calculations about force and momentum, but most of me purely running on instinct.

I land with a heavy thud and a grunt, just about catching my grip before I'm thrown off of the edge. I look back to see the ninjas glaring at me, but unable to make an attempt to follow. I'm grinning to myself as I lower myself over the side and climb along until I find a way in.

I spend the next five days in the baggage cart, making a cosy nest out of the luggage as the train keeps trundling closer to home.

* * *

Two weeks hitchhiking across continents, and I look like a parboiled vagrant.

I've got my next train lined up, but as I was sneaking around the station, I realised that people were beginning to notice me – which is a really bad thing. So I 'acquired' some new clothes and some toiletries from a shop and then locked myself in the station bathroom; sticking an Out of Order sign on the door for some privacy.

The place is grimy and disgusting (like all public toilets, let's be honest) but I ignore that as I study my reflection in the cracked mirror. I look even older now, what with the exhaustion from constant travel and the flourishing facial hair that's really starting to annoy me. I could probably pass for an adult now, rather than a teenager, which is a scary thought because I still think of myself as an awkward fourteen-year-old kid. It's plain weird to look in the mirror and see a man staring back.

I look and smell horrible, so I strip off the clothes I've been living in since I escaped the compound and scrub myself down. It's then that I realise that all of my old scars have vanished. You can't live on the streets and then become a teenage vigilante without picking up at least a few (I used to have more than my fair share) but now they're all gone. I can't help but feel a little pissed off – I had _earned_ those scars; each one was a lesson learned. But this was yet another gift from the pit.

Freaky green eyes and skin as clear as a new born babe's.

With a sigh I try two quash my anger, and put on my new clean clothes. And then I turn my attention to my slightly too-long hair and semi-impressive beard. Half an hour, and several creative curse words later, I look a lot neater. I'm bleeding from what seems like a hundred tiny nicks and cuts along my chin, but for my first attempt at shaving, I'm gonna call it a success.

* * *

I haven't got a passport (what with being legally dead), nor have I got any money. If I had the patience, I might have been able to make some shady connections and maybe see about getting myself some fake papers, but I decide against that. I even consider walking into an embassy and demanding a little help – but that could be messy. I died as Robin, after all, and I have no idea what cover story Bruce told about my sudden disappearance. It could be a little awkward if Jason Todd randomly reappeared on the radar.

Besides, I kinda want my arrival in Gotham to be a surprise.

So, with boarding a plane being out of the question; that leaves getting home by boat.

I spend a couple of days hanging around a port, learning about the people and the different cargos and figuring out which boat is my best bet. I eventually settle on a LexCorp tanker that's heading for Metropolis; and set about sneaking on board and finding myself a little cubbyhole. It would take twelve days to cross the Atlantic, so I make sure that I've got the supplies to last. I'm not over-worried about being bored – I've had plenty of practice doing nothing the last few months…

* * *

Being a stowaway is not as fun as you might think.

Getting on board is pretty easy, and I've got a good idea of how to get off at the other end – but the bit in the middle? Well, it's beyond dull. Moving around is dangerous, so I minimise my strolls to ten minutes a day, which is so not doing my recently un-atrophied limbs any good. I can't really sleep the whole time either, because of the possibility of one of the crew accidentally stumbling across me.

Getting caught would be very bad. Out here in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean there is very little to prevent the crew from just tossing me overboard. The fact that this is a LexCorp ship just makes that possibility even more real.

So I try to keep my mind occupied and my hands busy so that I don't let my guard down. I find a shipment of monogrammed napkins that I spend two days folding into every origami shape I know – which is surprisingly quite a few. By the time I reach the bottom of the box I have my very own paper zoo to keep me company. I cram the folded animals back into their container, imagining the intended recipient's reaction when they open it later.

I try to recite all of the alphabet and numerical systems of the many languages that Bruce had me learn as part of my training but when my linguistic skills prove to be about as terrible as I remember them, I turn to playing 'I Spy' against myself instead. This is surprisingly entertaining. I doodle all over the containers with a permanent marker I picked up somewhere along my cross-continental journey; adding vandalism to the list of crimes I've committed in my quest to get home.

Every waking moment I recall every tiny detail about my life before… well, before I died. The good stuff anyway, starting from that moment in Crime Alley where the Dark Knight picked up his second Robin. I remember my first night in the manor, surrounded by so much empty space and grandeur and feeling incredibly insignificant; but at the same time _safe,_ for the first time in forever. Every second of gruelling training was worth it for the chance to wear the uniform and work by Batman's side.

And I would have it all again.

I picture what Bruce's face will look like when he sees me. His expression probably won't vary (he will always be scowling) but his eyes will change. They'll widen slightly in surprise, before becoming suspicious. I'll prove to him that I am really me and then I might just get a little quirk of his lip – hell, I might even get a smile!

Dick's reaction is even easier to predict. He'll skip right over the suspicion stage and start grinning like a fool. He'll hug me – that's unavoidable – but I'll secretly enjoy the affection even as I tell him to stop suffocating me. Wally told me once that Dick used to be as protective of his personal space as Batman is (which I really can't picture) but something about becoming an older brother made him want to make up for Bruce's complete lack of an emotional connection. I always used to complain about it, but right now, I'm really craving a hug.

And then there'll be Alfred. He'll be as unflappable as always. He'll study me as closely as any Bat and then nod, satisfied. I can practically hear the comforting lilt of his British accent as he greets me.

_"Welcome home, Master Jason."_

* * *

It is so good to step on home soil again.

I've only been to Metropolis a few times in the past, but the city feels familiar as I walk its streets. Everything is bright and surprisingly clean (a far cry from the darkness and grime of Gotham) and the people are generally considerate to each other. It's not perfect, far from it in fact, but in the daylight hours it looks nice enough.

I'm strolling down the sidewalk, taking in the sights, when I notice that the other pedestrians are cutting a wide path around me. I catch my reflection in a shop window and realise why.

Twelve days on a cargo ship have left me looking like a hobo again.

I steal some more clothes and duck into a gas station restroom to clean myself up. The dirt is pretty much ingrained into my skin by this point, but I do the best that I can with what I've got. Forty-five minutes later and I emerge a little fresher and clean shaven; looking just like any other American teenager.

And then I see them.

The ninjas from the train station.

They're dressed casually in jeans and t-shirts, just like everybody else, but once again their body language gives them away. One of them has a broken nose held together with steri-strips, and I recognise him as the one I kneed in the face. They're hanging around two jeeps; one of them pulled up on the grass verge while the other is getting filled up at the pump. Of all the places to get gas in this huge city, they pick the same station as me? That can't be a coincidence.

And then it gets weirder. A third car is parked at the second pump, this one a luxury sedan that looks ridiculously expensive. One of the ninjas opens the rear passenger door, and a beautiful woman steps out.

It's Talia Al Ghul.

I have a brief moment of pure panic. She's found me. She's gonna drag me back to her compound. I'm never going home. But then I realise that they haven't seen me. I just about resist the urge to kick myself for being such an idiot, before taking a deep breath and vanishing – Bat style.

I find a motorbike parked the next street over and steal it. And then I hit the road for Gotham and don't look back.

* * *

The sun has set by the time I finally reach Gotham City, and I've run the bike's fuel tank down to its last few vapours. I ditch it in an alleyway when it gives up the ghost and continue onwards on foot.

The city is exactly how I remember it, right down to the smell. I take it all in, my feet automatically knowing the way as my eyes dart from one thing to the next. I walk past Crime Alley and through the Narrows, heading towards Finger Bridge. I know that the manor is behind me, to the north, but there's no point heading that way. It's night time. Bruce and Dick won't be home.

Batman and Nightwing will be on patrol.

I keep heading south until I end up in Old Gotham, figuring that that will be my best bet to run into them. The bright lights of Wayne Tower shine like a beacon and I automatically aim towards it like a moth to a bug zapper.

I take to the rooftops – the buildings are close enough to each other in this area that I can travel across them without needing a grapple line – and start studying the cityscape for the unmistakable shadows of the Gotham vigilantes. I'm starting to feel giddy as I run and jump and flip from roof to roof, feeling more alive than I ever have since I first woke up. I'm buzzing like an ADHD kid on caffeine – beyond excited.

And then I spot him. Nightwing.

I drop into a crouch by the parapet, knowing that my predecessor hasn't spotted me. He's standing on a ledge of the old clock tower, fifty feet above street level, casually leaning against the wall with his arms folded across his chest. He's gotten a little taller and put on some more muscle since the last time I saw him, but he's still as lean as an acrobat in his black suit with the blue bird symbol. I grin smugly. I'm still taller.

Even with his domino mask and the distance between us, I can read him and know that all is not right with the first Robin. He looks stressed, and there's a slump to his shoulders that hadn't been there two years ago, as if a huge weight now rested upon them. There's a sadness about him as well, and I wonder just how hard my death might have hit him.

I'm just about to jump across to surprise him, when I realise that he's waiting for someone. I figure that it's either Barbara or (hopefully) Bruce, so I decide to hunker down and wait too. It will be perfect when I spring my surprise return on the both of them.

It's not long before my world comes crashing down.

A streak of red comes swinging through the sky and lands deftly beside Nightwing on the ledge. A teenager, probably only about a year or so younger than me, starts chatting it up with my adoptive big brother like they're old friends. I study the red and black suit with the yellow lined cape. I blink stupidly at the domino mask and the stylised R on his chest.

It takes me a full five minutes to process that I'm looking at Robin.

But it isn't me. There's… there's some random kid wearing _my_ uniform!

I hyperventilate as it all hits me. On the clock tower ledge, neither Nightwing nor the imposter notice my growing panic attack. They just keep talking, smiling… _happy_. I'm in shock. Every fantasy I cradled as I struggled across half the world shatters into pieces around me. They didn't care that I had died. They were over me. They had _replaced_ me.

The betrayal hurts like a physical wound. By the time that the two of them take out their grapple guns and swing away across the city, that pain has festered into anger.

I want to kill my Replacement.

* * *

I'm crying silently, crumpled against an alley wall, when Talia approaches me.

Her ninja entourage is conspicuously absent as she nimbly avoids the dumpsters and the trash that piles against the brickwork like snowdrifts. She towers over me, her hands on her hips and her golden eyes boring into me. I'm too tired and broken to really fear what her presence could mean for me.

All rational thought has left me in the wake of crushing disappointment. I'm as blank as the first time I awoke in Talia's compound; void of everything except the bone deep pain of loss.

"I tried to keep you from witnessing that."

Her voice triggers something inside of me, and I glance up to meet her gaze. I can read in her expression the same genuine affection that she languished upon me while I lay crippled in her care. I must have been craving physical interaction, because before I had even processed the thought I was standing and wrapping my arms around her waist. She flinches, clearly surprised by the sudden hug, but she forces herself to reciprocate. She gently pats my shoulder as I break down into bone-shaking sobs.

I feel like I'm drowning. And Talia Al Ghul is my only lifeline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, a break from my usual style - I'm not generally a fan of 1st person POV, and I kept having to go back and correct the tenses (sorry if I missed anything) but I figured that I'd give it a go! 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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